Saving the Fox XII: Contra viento y marea
by Therrae
Summary: Against all odds: how can frontier justice possibly be this complicated?
1. Feb 8, 1816 (1)

_No ownership or profit real or implied. This is just for fun. _

_I still feel bad about the long hiatus, so I am going to post this all at once. This is a comment-killer, of course, but I am committed to being okay with that. _

**Saving the fox 13: **contra viento y marea****

**Friday, February 9, 1816**

**Felipe**

It all started with the arrest of a poor farmer named Jose Rivas. Well, that wasn't when it _started_, but that was why Zorro got involved.

The reason Rivas got arrested was the murder of Sebastian Porfirio Valverde during an attempted robbery on a side road in the middle of nowhere. Felipe didn't know Senor Valverde very well; he lived some five hours outside of town and was very elderly. He and his wife didn't generally pay calls on their distant neighbors and they only rarely came to town.

They had come for market day that week because of the stock sale, and had spent two nights in the tavern. It was on the way home Thursday morning that Senor Valverde was killed. The new alcalde—leading a patrol himself to get to know the territory—came upon Rivas standing over the overturned cart with a recently fired pistol.

Don Sabastian was dead, but Doña Maria, though she had been shot, was still alive. Mendoza had brought her to the De le Vega hacienda—The doctor was at the mission vineyard where someone had been bitten by a snake, but Mendoza remembered that Father Benitez had gone out to visit with Diego that morning, and he had hoped the two of them might be able to do something.

Neither Diego nor the priest were surgeons—and most of the experience they had with injury (rather than illness) had been with animals. Still, between them they had removed the pistol ball and stopped the bleeding and bustled the poor senora into a guest room to be looked after by Nuela. Senora Sosa would have been preferable, but she was currently engaged at the Pascale house because Doña Amanda was in a family way.

Felipe missed all the excitement because he'd been in the pasture training Angel to come to whistle calls. The filly was harder to work with then Toronado. Or, no. Any fault surely lay with Felipe himself, not Angel. He did not have Diego's gift of making an animal immediately and totally _love_ him. It was taking a long time to coax her loyalty and affection. The problem did not go both ways. Angel was intelligent and not the least lazy or mean. Felipe adored her.

He had played with Angel until midafternoon, and by then all the interesting activity was over, and Diego was resting with his feet up in the library. It was Father Benitez who told the story, but it was Diego Felipe scolded. "I cannot leave you alone for five minutes!"

Diego had laughed at that and tugged up his trouser leg to show Felipe how thin his ankles were. And that was more important to Felipe than dramatic stories about bandits and surgeries. It had been two weeks now since Father Benitez had finished his terrible cure and Diego had not relapsed at all. He still had no great stamina, but his color was good and nothing was puffy. This morning must have been very trying, but here was Diego, comfortable and awake.

In fact, the morning must have been truly awful. "Have you eaten? Either of you? Do you need anything?"

Father Benitez glanced at Diego. "We did eat, thank you. And I should be getting back to town. As grateful as I am that Doña Maria is doing so well, there is a funeral to prepare for. Diego, can you manage - "

The front door slammed open so violently the walls and floor shook and Don Alejandro stalked down the hallway to his office without pausing or even looking around. He was followed, a minute later by Gilberto, who was looking much more slowly and looking worried rather than enraged. "What in the world has happened?" Diego asked.

Gilberto took off his hat and fanned himself with it, though it was not a particularly warm day. "Oh. Well. The murder you know about. And the attempted robbery."

"Yes?" Diego pressed.

"Our new alcalde has arrested Jose Rivas for the murder and means to hang him tomorrow."

"That is not funny," Diego snapped.

"Don't think de Soto means it to be," Gilberto returned. "He wants to make a show of law and order, swift certain justice. What a good protector of our persons and property."

"Tomorrow!" Diego protested. "But—a trial!"

Gilberto shook his head.

"Jose Rivas…." Father Benitez said slowly. "I would not have expected it."

"Of course he didn't do it," Gilberto said. "Rivas? Robbing people on the road? Shooting people? Never!"

"Well, then." Father Benitez said, smoothing down his cassock. "I guess I am going into town to check in on the prisoner and have a word with the alcalde. I don't suppose you would allow Felipe to accompany me? In case I need to send a message back later?"

"That would be quite convenient. " Gilberto laid a hand on Felipe's shoulder while dropping a peso into his hand. "Stop by the tavern for something to eat, too. I imagine the rumors will be interesting." He sighed. "In the meantime perhaps I should go make sure that Father isn't thinking of doing anything rash."

No one in town thought Rivas had done it—except the alcalde, who was completely convinced. Even Father Benitez couldn't get him to move on the subject. After his interview with de Soto, the priest was angrier than Felipe had ever seen him, though he got no details other than 'stubborn' and 'condescending.'

So, naturally Zorro made plans to retrieve poor Rivas that night. He expected to find extra guards everywhere (given the history of interrupted executions), but he had a crafty plan to sneak in. The last time Gilberto had been a guest of the jail he had had plenty of time to consider the ceiling (or rather, the lack of a proper one) and was fairly sure he could shift some roof tiles and come straight down.

It wasn't necessary, though. There wasn't an extra guard. Mendoza was, in fact, waiting with the prisoner by the fountain. Startled, Zorro reined in, looking for a trap, but no. Mendoza shoved his prisoner toward Zorro and slipped back into the shadows.

Zorro hid the prisoner in the broken mill at Mule's Head and then came home and spent almost an hour pacing Diego's room and muttering. If the alcalde was up to something it was incredibly subtle….

The next morning the alcalde arrested Mendoza for dereliction of duty and ordered a firing squad—So Zorro had to rescue him too. It was (and Felipe saw everything from upstairs at Victoria's) a spectacular daylight rescue. They had no more of the noisemaker explosives. Those had been used up at the alaclde's party and Diego had not had time to make more. What Zorro had was a set of stink bomb experiments Diego had been working on the previous year.

Ramone would have known to expect Zorro for this. He would have laid a trap. But de Soto was caught completely flat-footed. It was a spectacular rescue with a clean getaway. Zorro took Mendoza to join Rivas at the mill. Laughing to himself as they rode out of town, Felipe wondered how long this would go on and who would be sent to the mill next.

**Diego**

It was almost painful, waiting at home while Mendoza was scheduled for public execution. If Diego had been in town, though, people might wonder why his more vigorous brother was not. And too, he did not want Mendoza seeing him there, calmly taking notes on his upcoming death for the newspaper. And besides all that, both an execution and a dramatic rescue would be more excitement than his heart was ready for.

The reasons for staying at home were compelling, but Diego was re-discovering that waiting was so much more difficult when he wasn't exhausted and weak.

Trying to fill the creeping minutes, he wrote an editorial he had been thinking about but hadn't been able to focus on, then went to check on Doña Maria. She still had not woken, but there was no sign of fever. He lifted aside the dressing, but the wound was scarcely inflamed at all. Perhaps it would heal cleanly.

Which was no guarantee she would survive; she had lost a great deal of blood.

Diego realized he was staring at a woman who was sleeping in her bedroom. Well, a guestroom. For purely medical reasons. But still. Acutely embarrassed -she was elderly, yes, _but still_! – he turned away. How did doctors _do_ this? Tending an injured horse or even Gilberto was not nearly so complicated.

Diego retreated to a chair on the other side of the room, cleared his throat, and said to Nuela, "If she wakes, getting her to take a little broth is the most important thing."

Nuela gave the bed a worried glance, but nodded. "Everyone is most anxious that she wake up and identify the criminal…."

"And if she speaks, don't stop her. But it is essential that she drink -" There was a knock at the front door. "Perhaps that is Doctor Hernandez at last." Hurrying to get the door, Diego made it to the hallway before he realized he had not had to pause for a moment to let the worst of the vertigo pass. It was there, yes, but so mild there was no concern he would fall.

It was Doctor Hernandez at the door. When he saw Diego he took a half-step back in surprise. "Not you, then?"

Diego's brows shot up. "No. Doña Maria."

The answer produced even more surprise. "I heard she was dead."

"She has been shot. She is not dead."

"Good heavens," he said faintly, motioning Diego to lead the way. In the sickroom, he asked Nuela for more light and sent Diego to wait in the library.

Diego selected a book of poetry and tried – firmly – to turn his mind away from Doctor Hernandez's greeting. The last thing he wanted to think about was how bad things were three short weeks ago or … how precarious this recovery probably was.

The day following his last foray as Zorro he had slept until late afternoon and woken only because the sodden heaviness in his chest and limbs made sleep impossible. That evening and for the next two or three days he had obediently rested, taken the medicine they gave him, walked when they told him to walk, eaten what they gave him to eat. There was a great deal of dandelion. They brought the doctor. Gilberto and Father and took turns reading aloud. Teodoro sat beside him singing prayers in Latin. Father and Gilberto had helped him into a tepid bath. They had added cinchona into his medicine, though the whole family knew the dangers of that and it made them all nervous.

It didn't matter. Nothing lessened the weight in his chest or soothed the anxious feeling that this next breath would not _quite_ be enough.

On Wednesday –Wednesday, he remembered, because Gilberto came home in the afternoon having made hash of _The Guardian_ —the coughing had started. Diego was too tired and bad tempered to muster much fear at that, although he saw panic in everyone else's eyes. Diego had no idea how to comfort them. He refused to see Victoria when she came to visit that evening.

No. That was weeks ago, and he had been granted a reprieve. Maybe only a small one, true. But maybe a long one! And he would not spoil however much time he had with fretting over ugly memories or worrying over the ultimate future.

Today he could breathe. He could walk easily. He could retrieve a scrap of paper from the floor. He could concentrate on a column. He would enjoy that while it lasted.

However long it lasted.

He was saved from his moodiness by Felipe's exuberant arrival home. His graceful, fluid description of Zorro's arrival, the impact of the stink bombs, Mendoza's escape soon had Diego laughing. Gilberto really had a marvelous grasp of showmanship.

Poor Mendoza, though. His whole existence was being a sergeant in the Lancers. Could he possibly have thought he wouldn't get blamed for the prisoner's escape, even if he had managed to conceal his own active role?

When Diego mentioned this go Felipe, his comment was greeted with an eyeroll. "Of course he knew. Mendoza isn't such a coward."

Footsteps in the hall heralded the return of the Doctor. He set his bag aside and ran a hand through his hair. Diego poured him a glass of wine and sent Felipe for some food. "That bad?" he asked.

He passed a hand over his eyes. "Better than I expected. Your girl says you and the priest got the ball out? Not the tidiest job I've ever seen, but you stopped the bleeding." He shook his head. "Perhaps she has enough blood left." He sat down and sighed. "I suppose I better hear the whole story. Her husband is dead?"

So Diego repeated the story he had gathered from Mendoza, his father, and Felipe. He included the most likely bits of gossip and speculation—the doctor knew everyone, and Diego would find his insight as useful as the doctor would the situation.

"Well, that doesn't look good for Rivas." Doctor Hernandez nodded a thanks to Felipe who appeared with a plate of sausage and bread and a pitcher of lemonade.

"Surely, you don't think he did it!" Diego protested.

"I know he owed quite a bit of money to Valverde. But that is no proof of guilt, of course. I suppose Zorro will sort it out. "

Diego swallowed. "I hope Zorro or someone sorts it out. All I can do is document what is known—and that likely too late to do any good."

"Hm. Make sure you don't embarrasses the new alcalde too much, eh?"

"Tempting as it is, the newspaper doesn't need an open enemy," Diego agreed.

A sigh. A stern look. "And you, Don Diego? How are you feeling?"

"Better. As well as I've felt since – early fall, at least."

"And the dosage?"

"We have omitted the cinchona, and the foxglove tincture is now at one spoonful."

"How often?"

"Diluted in water and given in small doses over the course of the day."

"I shouldn't ask how the priest altered your treatment."

"It would horrify you," Diego admitted, wishing he were not having this conversation and marveling that he had managed to put it off this long.

"Hmmm. Still, you are very much improved and I am glad to see it. You took that quarrel with our new alcalde very badly." `

And didn't _that_ rankle. The doctor wasn't the only one convinced that hot words with the alcalde on that Saturday night had been the cause of Diego's collapse Sunday. Even when, following Teodoro's desperate treatment, Diego had steadily improved, Father had been adamant that he avoid any sort of mental agitation. He had been set that Diego give up _The Guardian_, and Gilberto hadn't been able to change his mind.

It had taken Theodoro to bring Father around, and Diego was afraid the argument he used was that poor Diego needed a sense of purpose to give meaning to his life.

"I have no intention of repeating my performance that night," Diego said stiffly. He hated the doctor's pitying look.

**Jamie **

Toronado had incredible endurance and carried double weight much longer than Jamie would have credited, but eventually they had dismount and to walk and give him a rest.

Jamie, more comfortable on foot no matter how splendid the mount, rolled his shoulders and set himself to amble comfortably beside Toronado.

He snuck a glance across Toronado's nose and then looked away. Up close, Zorro was not so tall as he remembered. And yet, he loomed despite that. Really amazing…. He swallowed. "So. Thank you. For saving my life."

"You're welcome," Zorro said blandly.

Under the circumstances, Jamie thought something more might be required, but he was at a loss. "It was very nice of you, all things considered."

"Think nothing of it."

Jamie snuck another look. Was he amused? Zorro always came and went so quickly –

Embarrassed to be staring, Jamie looked away and realized where they were. "We are going west!" he gasped.

"Very good, Sergeant."

Jamie winced at that, feeling clumsy and obvious in comparison to the sleek and invincible bandit. "But we were headed west when we went out of town!"

"More or less," Zorro agreed.

Jamie thought about that. "Very clever."

"You know all my tricks now. Whatever shall I do?"

"I am the only one who knows, and _I_ am out of a job."

"I imagine that is temporary."

They walked for several minutes in silence, then Jamie asked. "Where are we going?"

"The broken mill. Jose is hiding there. Let's hope Doña Maria wakes up and identifies her attacker before it runs out of room for de Soto's scapegoats."

Tentatively, Jamie protested, "I do not think he is looking for scapegoats. I think he honestly wants to right a wrong. He wants justice."

"Justice requires a trial," Zorro answered coldly.

"That is true," Jamie agreed. That had certainly been clear last night, when he had unlocked Rivas' cell. "The outlaws know more about justice than …." He found he couldn't finish the thought.

After a while they mounted again and rode on. When the mill came into sight, Zorro called out and a face peeked around the doorway. After a moment the rest of Rivas appeared. "And you are delivered to your refuge," Zorro said cheerfully. While Mendoza dismounted he produced from the saddlebag a woolen blanket, a canteen, and a bundle of jerky and sea biscuits. "No fires. I'm sorry, it is likely to be cold tonight."

Toronado spun and galloped south, leaving Jamie with the gloomy Rivas.

**Gilberto**

It was so easy to fall into old routines: Brushing down Toronado and giving him an extra carrot. Changing out of the black costume and setting it to air. A wet comb to conceal how badly the mask flattened his hair. One last look in the mirror before turning down the oil lamp and spying to see that the library was empty.

First he checked on Doña Maria. She was still unconscious, and it occurred to Gilberto that he and Diego needed to come up with a back-up plan—something better than "Mendoza and Rivas escape into the mountains and live like wild-men for the rest of their lives," for preference. He could not find Diego, though, anywhere in the house or yard, and when he asked Pepe the boy had no idea where he might be. "The doctor was here before, though," he added. "To see the lady."

"And what did he say?"

Pepe shrugged. "Dunno."

Gilberto sighed. "Do you know where Felipe or my father is?"

"Felipe is out at the corral. I don't think your father has come back from town yet."

It was a twenty minute walk out the corral, and when he got there Felipe didn't know where Diego was either. "Something wrong," he asked one handed while holding Angel's bridle with the other.

"No," Gilberto said shortly. "Nothing is wrong."

He had been back at the house pacing the library for only ten minutes when Diego blithely walked in. At Gilberto's expression, he paused. "Problem?" he signed.

Gilberto was fairly sure this was not a conversation that had to be kept secret, and he could not have reined in his temper enough to keep it silent anyway. "Where the hell have you been?"

Slightly puzzled, Diego answered, "I went for a walk."

"Not _alone_?"

Diego went very still. "'Berto."

"Don't pretend you are being reasonable. What if something had happened?"

"It was a walk, not a cross country race. And perhaps I should point out that if I am too frail for a walk to the creek I certainly cannot withstand the stress of a quarrel."

That was a cheap shot but true, and Gilberto's mouth snapped shut. After a moment, he had his temper under enough control to say, "It hasn't been a month! Not even three weeks! You need to take this slowly, for pity's sake-"And that was not his temper under control. He turned away and fixed his eyes on the books on the shelf. One in English. His English lessons had fallen to the side lately….

He must not berate Diego. Or pick a fight.

"I was being an ass," Diego said. "It is perfectly safe to yell at me. Whether or not I _deserve_ it is another matter. I took a walk. I walked slowly. I stopped when I needed to."

Gilberto took a slow breath and rubbed his thumbnail over his mustache. "How many times was that?"

"Only three."

Gilberto turned around. "The creek, you said? You couldn't—you couldn't have done that last month."

"I could barely make it to the bunkhouse last month."

Gilberto closed his eyes.

Diego stepped closer. His shoulder was a warm pressure against Gilberto's own. Gilberto couldn't stop himself from trembling a little.

When he was sure his voice was steady, he cleared his throat and began, "Diego—"

Before he knew how to finish, Nuela burst into the room. "The senora is awake!" she gasped.

_~Tbc_


	2. Jan 25, 1816

**January 25, 1816**

**Gilberto **

Filipe stalked into the parlor, his limbs stiff with forced calm. "He will not be still! He complains about everything! Nothing is right!" He fingerspelled all of that rather than gesturing whole words. Gilberto could not fathom what that signified. "And he wants to speak to you!"

Gilberto shifted uneasily. "Perhaps - "

"Get. In. There."

There was no help for it. Gilberto slunk into his brother's room.

Diego looked no better than the last time Gilberto had visited. He was propped up on pillows and grey. His eyes were closed, though, so perhaps he was asleep—

"You have been avoiding me."

"Of course not," Gilberto protested, hurrying to sit on the edge of the bed. "You've been resting. I've been letting you. If I hang around you'll fuss about the blasted newspaper again. I am a terrible influence." The words came out thoughtlessly, and Gilberto wished he could bite his tongue off.

Diego slipped his cold hand around Gilberto's. "It isn't your fault."

Gilberto lifted his chin. "I am not such a coward that I need you to deny it. Riding out….was too much for you."

"Yes." Diego cleared his throat and suppressed a cough. "It was. But it was not your fault I went."

Oh, Diego. So good and forgiving. Gilberto felt sick. "I provoked him."

"I know."

"I mocked him. I caused - "

"He came here to hunt you." Diego whispered. "Zorro is the prize he has bet his career on winning."

Gilberto shook his head.

"You and Zorro in the same place. He has seen it. I have protected you—" He paused to cough. "I would have killed him, but….upping the stakes so….would only mean the next would be worse… and I won't be here."

"You'll be here," Gilberto said automatically. And then, "On our birthday. You promised." But this year Diego had only promised he would _try._

Diego squeezed his hand hard. "Listen to me. I would do it again. If I have killed myself protecting you, _I am not sorry_."

This was unendurable. Diego had always loved him more than he deserved, forgiven far more than was just, been so generous—this was unendurable. Gilberto ground his teeth together desperately.

"'Berto." Too softly. "I need to sit up – a bit more."

"Here. Slowly. Let's turn you sideways so your legs can rest over the side." The motions of shifting and resettling Diego were dreadfully familiar. The new position seemed to ease him, though. "There, all right? Rest a moment. No more serious conversations for a while."

There was a knock at the door and no pause before footsteps crossed the outer room. It was Father Benitez, carrying his satchel of herbs and simples, and Gilberto felt a flash of relief. "We didn't expect you till evening."

The small old man considered them for a moment, and, as always under his scrutiny, Gilberto winced inwardly. "Felipe sent a message. I came as quickly as I could."

"Thank you."

"I need to examine him. Please wait in the library."

It was almost a relief to get out of Diego's room, but pacing the library was also terrible.

The wait was surprisingly short. Father Benitez appeared in the entry way, pointed at a chair in a silent command to sit, and reported, "He is asleep. Your father is with him."

Gilberto—sitting down—nodded.

"It is very bad."

There was nothing to say to that. Gilberto stared at the floor.

"The dandelion is no longer enough. He is not passing water, and what he has retained has settled in his viscera. It is too much for his heart."

Gilberto steeled himself and lifted his chin, but his courage nearly failed him. It took a long moment to ask, "How long?"

"You misunderstand. This is not a conversation about his death. This is a conversation about desperate options."

"What—what do you mean?"

He took a finely made wooden box from his satchel and laid it in Gilberto's hands. "My very last idea. A gift from a friend of mine from Central America."

Gilberto unlatched and lifted the delicate lid. Inside was….were they small, black raisins? The did not smell like raisins. "This will strengthen his heart?"

"This will make him piss." His voice was hard. His eyes were not happy.

Gilberto's own heart sank. "It is poisonous."

"Some. Possibly more than he can withstand. He is very weak."

Gilberto snapped the box shut. His hands were trembling. "Where was this a month ago? He was stronger! He -"

"He was improving then. There was no need to take such a terrible risk."

Gilberto gently set the precious box aside and retreated to the fireplace. He leaned against the mantle, just to the side of the latch that opened the secret door. "You are offering kill or cure. What you are asking me to choose -"

"There is no choice. And there is no time. We must speak to your father and then we must give the first dose now."

***Z***

The affect was small at first, but wonderful. By midnight, Diego had filled a chamber pot. By noon the next day he had passed an astonishing amount of water, enough that the family could _see_ the difference in his joints and face. But he also had cramps in all of his limbs, and by evening the pain was…quite bad.

Diego bore it as he bore everything. Calm and determined, he ate the shriveled and bitter berries, took his other medicines, and walked the hallways hourly when he was awake. Gilberto, when it was his turn to sit with the patient, reminisced about their student days.

The next day Diego could not stand. The pain was bad enough that he could not sleep. Then his stomach rebelled against the medicine, and he could keep nothing down. That had been a new kind of awful: Diego muttering apologies, Felipe and Nuela scrambling to keep up with the mess, the look on Father Benitez's face—

Gilberto drew him aside. "What is it?"

"We must stop the treatment. If he cannot keep down his _other_ medicine …. " His eyes turned worriedly toward the bed.

"Oh. Is it….It is too soon." To have put him through so much suffering for nothing….

"I had planned another day of the fruit. But. He has passed a great deal of water. It _may_ be enough." He glanced over his shoulder at Diego. "I suppose…if we had to….we could begin again in a few days."

Oh, Diego. "Perhaps," Gilberto said hopelessly, "he would do better after a rest? Wouldn't he? A little stronger?"

Father Benitez did not look at all encouraged. Gilberto surveyed the rest of the room. Felipe was seated on the floor, slumped with exhaustion. Father was holding Diego's hand and he looked near to tears. Nuela, gathering up the soiled rags, _was_ in tears….

Gilberto gently sent them all away, climbed up beside Diego on the bed, and pushed their shoulders together.

Diego answered with a soft, meaningless sound.

"Try to sleep," Gilberto whispered, slipping a finger around Diego's wrist. The pulse there was stronger. Wasn't it? And….as haggard and ill and wretched as Diego looked, wasn't he just a little pink?

With no other option, Gilberto began to pray. Diego shifted slightly and rested his head against his shoulder. After a while he seemed to fall asleep.

Diego woke a little after sunset. He ate and took his regular medicine. He said the pain was better even though he still needed help standing. Gilberto spent that night in the chair by Diego's bed.

Most of the pain and weakness were gone by Monday, and Diego was – madly, in everyone else's opinion—demanding to be allowed to work on his newspaper again.

Gilberto retreated to the cave and curried Toronado for a very long time.


	3. Feb 8, 1816 (2)

**Feb 9, 1816**

**Friday**

**Gilberto**

They had a name: Tomas Porvas. Gilberto went tearing out of the house – the side door toward the stable, not the library toward the cave— without stopping even to grab his hat. Father was still in town, and he could pass along the wonderful news to the alcalde that the real attacker had been identified.

And wouldn't that go over well! He hoped they wouldn't be too smug about it. A man like Ignacio would not respond well to so much public embarrassment, and there was no way to avoid a great deal of that when a man was so publically wrong.

Diego thought he knew about where this Porvas lived. It would be tempting to stop by, just to see if he was there and to watch in case he took it into his head to try to escape. Just until the lancers arrived to arrest him. Or to track him, if he had decided to flee on the assumption that his victim would survive and had recognized him.

But Diego had learned his lesson about exerting himself.

Instead he spent the next half hour playing at both host and doctor, making sure that Doña Maria was comfortable and overseeing Nuela's efforts to get her to drink. When she slid back into sleep, Diego retreated back to his room, dutifully checked his pulse and took his medicine, and changed his shoes so he could go into town.

He would be there when the alcalde returned to town with his prisoner. He could endure that much fun, at least. He had Felix hitch up Gilberto's little rig – poor Father, he had really hoped Gilberto would use it for courting, but it was mainly Diego who used it – sent Pepe to fetch Felipe –who would surely enjoy seeing this too-and cut some roses from the garden to bring to Victoria.


	4. Jan 29, 1816

**January 29, 1816**

**Monday**

It was more than a week before Victoria saw Diego again, though she had gone to the house as promised the next afternoon. Don Alejandro had met her in the parlor and gravely explained that the dramatic events of the evening before had been too much for Diego, and he had not yet recovered.

Victoria had had to pretend she was surprised by this, that she had not half-expected that Diego would be very ill today. She expressed just the right amount of disappointment and asked if she might have a word with Gilberto. Don Alejandro almost briskly informed her that Gilberto was occupied and they would let her know when Diego was ready for visitors.

She had been going to ask Gilberto just how badly Diego was doing – she thought, under the circumstances, he would tell her more than his father had—but this swift dismissal told her enough. Diego was very ill.

So for the next few days she had gone about her work, missed Sir Edmund, missed _Diego_, and forced herself to be polite to the new alcalde when he came in for dinner at the tavern.

On Wednesday evening, Victoria packed up a flan and went to try to visit Diego again. This time, when Pepe scampered off to see if Diego was ready for a visitor, it was Gilberto who returned. One look at his face made her shoulders sag slightly. "No?" she asked.

He shook his head, and, alarmingly, laid a consoling hand on her arm. "Not today. I'm sorry."

"Is he getting better at all?"

"Not yet." Gilberto would not meet her eyes.

"He's getting worse," she realized.

A pause, and then, "There is some congestion in his lungs today. It...has happened before. He has recovered from worse. Father Benitez is trying a new medicine."

"I want to see him."

"No."

"I have seen him ill before - Please - "

"He will not waste his strength looking brave for you. No. Perhaps in a few days."

Victoria closed her eyes, hating Gilberto De le Vega with a passion she usually reserved for alcaldes.

"I am sorry," he ground out.

She managed - just - not to slap him.

"I will give him your best." A dismissal.

"Thank you," she said levelly. "That is very generous."

The next day she caught the rumor – from Carlito at the vicarage, to Manny, a servant at the dry-goods store, to Pilar – that Father Benitez would be staying at the De le Vegas for a few days.

Victoria went on, going about her work, missing Sir Edmund, missing Diego, and managing to avoid the new alcalde.

But yesterday after Church Father Benitez had taken a moment to tell her that Diego was mending and she should come by the next day. That morning she put the simplest soup imaginable on for lunch and headed out to the hacienda as soon as the breakfast rush was over.

To her surprise, Pepe led her at once to the library, where Diego was sitting in a chair. He was wearing neither shoes nor a jacket, but Victoria had visited him when he was ill before and she had expected a dressing gown. Finding him in shirtsleeves made her grin.

"Forgive me for not rising—" he began with polite formality, but Victoria darted forward and leaned down to give him an indiscreet hug.

His arms came around her at once. "I'm sorry," he whispered in her ear. "I've given everyone a terrible fright. I'm sorry."

"I love you," she whispered back.

Diego went very still. He slid back, squeezed her hands tightly, and nodded toward a delicate arm chair beside the desk. "Pull that closer and sit beside me, Victoria."

There was nothing to do but retrieve the chair and sit beside him. He took her hand, and she realized that his hand was nearly as warm as her own. "I'm glad to see you are feeling better," she said carefully.

He said nothing for a long moment, and Victoria allowed herself to just enjoy holding his hand.

"I had intended today….to make you see reason," Diego said at last. "I hate the idea of ruining your life."

"I understand if you refuse to allow the wedding to go forward," she answered, although that was mostly a lie. "But I will not end the engagement—Oh, don't be angry! I'm not going to quarrel. But if I am not going to marry you, I am content not to marry anyone at all."

Diego breathed in and then out, very slowly. "This sentiment will pass if you do not cling to it."

"It isn't sentiment," she said more sharply than she should have. "I am being very sensible." Diego sighed and looked pitying at that so she explained: "Diego, you know every eligible man in the vicinity."

"Not every one, surely…."

She ignored his interruption, "And many men out in the wide world as well. So tell me where I will find a husband would ever be half so—so _kind_ to me as you would? Who would not be greedy for my money, but would also not be ashamed to marry a _woman_ who owned a tavern? Who would respect my business sense –or any of my sense - and not treat me like a child? Where would I ever find someone who would take the risks or make the sacrifices _you_ have for me? No man I will ever meet could measure up to you."

"Don't be unfair," Diego said.

"I am not. I am not demanding you marry me. This is not an ultimatum. As long as I am engaged to you, I am not annoyed by other pursuers. And since we are engaged, I can see you more or less alone. We are still friends. Don't scowl at me. It is a very good solution! I don't need to get married. I can take care of myself. I have my business. And I am busy and – and—and satisfied."

"I see."

"But please don't tell me again to marry someone else. I won't do that. It isn't fair for you to ask."

"No," he agreed. "I won't mention it again." He looked very tired, and Victoria remembered he had been bedridden just a day or two before.

She squeezed his hand. "Shall I read to you?"

"Oh, no. Please. Tell me everything that has been going on in town. I feel like I have been…very far away."

So she brought him up to date on all the gossip until Felipe appeared to remind Diego that it was time to walk. "Will you join me in the garden? It is a little damp from last night's rain, but the roses are lovely?"

He switched from slippers to shoes and rose unsteadily. His grip on her arm was much stronger than politeness alone required, but he walked through the house and all the way to the well before he had to stop and get his breath.


	5. Feb 8, 1816 (3)

**Feb 8, 1816**

**Friday**

**Alejandro**

Mendoza's execution ended, as everyone but Ignacio de Soto had expected, in a spectacular rescue by Zorro. The stink bombs had been an unpleasant, but possibly necessary, touch. The lancers certainly had not been expecting them. Alejandro was glad he had been standing well back.

Zorro had been long out of sight when the garrison had finally managed to get themselves sorted out and mounted and at last on his trail. De Soto, optimistically, had been at the head of them. Alejandro was not worried they would actually bring the clever fox back.

Still, it was not a good day to leave town. He changed into work clothes and retreated to house's garden while he planted the first batch of rose cuttings.

_Damn this new alcalde, anyway_. It wasn't like the job was so difficult that you needed to execute people willy-nilly to keep up with the crime and rebellion. Not that Alejandro was able to clearly think about this Ignacio de Soto; should he be grateful to him for his warning about Edmund and saving him from arrest? or hate him for driving Edmund away?

It was days like this that he missed Edmund most. Not during Diego's latest crisis, no; Diego was still Edmund's favorite and Alejandro had been honestly glad his old friend hadn't had to witness him suffer like that. Alejandro wished he could put what he had witnessed _himself_ out of his mind. Day after day of unremitting terror and pity. Wondering, as he watched his son grow weaker, if he should pray for mercy, an end to this relentless torment one way or another. Diego had already endured so much—

And then, finally, his struggling heart had rallied pain the _pain_ had come-

It was hard to encourage Diego when he was already much braver than Alejandro had ever been. What good were words, when there was not a single thing he could _do_ to ease his son's suffering? When Alejandro himself was put to shame by his son's strength?

Alejandro realized he had stopped planting and was only lifting and crumbling clods of dirt, over and over. If Edmund had been here, Alejandro would not brood so much, but he was alone too often now. Carlos was dead. So was Antonio Paschal. Edmund was fleeing for his life. So many friends dead or gone or, like Roberto Segovia, too elderly and frail to be involved much anymore….

Alejandro was getting older, too. In a few years it would all fall to Gilberto, who was already doing his best and already…already barely able to cope with Diego's illness. In a way, Alejandro understood Gilberto better than Diego. Alejandro, too, had watched his brother die—although Alfonzo had been gone in less than day. He had suffered so briefly, and still, thirty years later, Alejandro was haunted. How much worse for Gilberto?

When the sun was high overhead, he cleaned himself up and headed over to the tavern. It was busier than usual; some were attracted by the escalating contest between Zorro and de Soto, others had come in for Sebastian Valverde's funeral which was scheduled for the next morning. None of them were happy at the idea of an execution without trial, even if the victim was no one of 'importance.' Not everyone was pleased with Zorro's intervention, though. Alejandro kept himself in the center of conversations, reminding everyone that it had only been a day, that everything wasn't yet known, that there was no hurry to sort things out.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a rider thunder into town. Turning toward the window, he realized it was Gilberto. _Diego_, he thought, panic surging through him before he realized that it was much more likely that some news of their houseguest had brought him rushing to town. He hurried out the door. "Good news, or bad, 'Berto?" he called.

"The senora is awake, and we have a name!" came the ringing answer. "The alcalde?"

Alejandro pointed toward the cuertel, and Gilberto changed course. When they were side by side, Gilberto paused before the doorway. "Has he done anything else?"

"Not that he has announced."

Gilberto gave a strange, angry smile. "I am almost disappointed."

But Gilberto was polite and respectful as he made his report. He was the very model of the earnest and dutiful citizen, reporting only the facts as he knew them, and not alluding to any errors that might have been made previously.

As for the new alcalde, upon hearing the news he jumped up to his feet with alacrity and shouted for a squad to mount up. He checked his pistol and hurried away without even taking his leave. Alejandro and Gilberto glanced at each other and shrugged.

Back on the street Gilberto halted suddenly, a hand darting out to his father's arm. "Oh," he said. "I have had a terrible thought. Father, what if Porvas has heard that one of his victims has survived. Everyone knows we have her at the house -"

Alejandro went cold. Gilberto was right. "Stay here and let me know if anything happens here. I will go home and rouse the men!" Diego was there alone. Dear God.

"Father, no, I - " Gilberto began.

"One way or another, this will all be over soon, Son." Alejandro clapped him on the shoulder and ran to where Dulcinea was tethered.

As it turned out, Diego was not at home. Alejandro met him on the road coming the other way. That was an astonishing bit of good luck: Diego was better off well away from any excitement.

**Victoria**

Half a dozen lancers charging out of town at a gallop brought Victoria to the door of the tavern. _What can they be up to now?_ She wondered. It was already an hour past the time she usually closed for siesta. "We are closing down the kitchen," she announced. "Cold snacks and lemonade only."

Leo, on the bar, gave her a shocked look. They had been doing a very good business. She set her shoulders and nodded once at him. There was no way she was going let a huge crowd of vaqueros and caballeros sit and drink all afternoon. Things were dangerous enough in Los Angeles without adding in the sort of bad decisions people made when they were drunk.

Looking out the door, she saw Gilberto De le Vega sitting on the rim of the fountain. He looked… unusually static and distinctly unhappy. She reached him at the same time as Father Benitez, who was coming from the other direction.

"What has happened?" he asked without preamble.

"Good news, in that Senora Valverde has awakened and given us the name of the real attacker. Perhaps the alcalde will have some luck arresting him."

Impatiently, Father Benitez motioned him to continue.

Gilberto shrugged tensely. "Father has gone home to make sure the amateur highwayman has not decided to finish the job."

"A terrifying thought," Father Benitez agreed. He looked Gilberto up and down. "I am sorry to inconvenience you, but I require your help. A small errand. And, of course, you would never consider refusing any favor I asked, when I have been so diligent in helping your family. You feel so indebted."

Gilberto's breath caught. Clearly, he and the priest understood something Victoria didn't.

"The errand is private, of course. On behalf of a parishioner. You will not discuss it. In the meantime, I shall keep an eye on things here in town, and will see that your father is immediately informed should anything….interesting come to pass."

"_Thank you_," Gilberto whispered, hurrying off to collect his horse.

"That was very clever," Victoria murmured.

He looked at her in innocent bewilderment. She smiled innocently back. "Would you like to come sit in the shade on the porch at the tavern? I can offer tea? And some pie."

"And I would be nicely visible, in case anyone needed the reminder to behave."

"Oh, surely nothing like that would ever be necessary."

In fact, the tavern had nearly emptied out now that the bar was closed. Victoria was glad to have the quiet as she swiftly assembled a tray for Father Benitez. She would, she decided, sweep the porch and wait with him for…whatever came next.

To her happy surprise, what came next was only Diego, arriving with Felipe in his brother's little gig. He climbed lightly out and mounted the two steps to the porch without pausing. As always, at the sight of him, her shoulders relaxed and her spine straightened. It was ridiculous, how much she missed him—and she had only just seen him on Wednesday.

He held out a bouquet of roses and took her hand. She set down the broom and squeezed his hand. She would much rather have wrapped her arms around his waist and press her cheek to his chest. It was very difficult to be appropriate. "How nice to see you," she said. "Are these for me?"

Diego laughed. "No, I have taken to carrying flowers everywhere, in case I need to … attract bees. Of course they are for you!"

It wasn't a very good joke, but it was the first he had made since Senor Kendall left. And of course, for a couple of months before that, Diego had been unusually quiet and serious. "Very practical," she said happily. "Bees are useful. I shall put these in water in case we need to lure some in later."

When she returned to the porch with a bowl of apples, glasses for Diego and Felipe, and a fresh pitcher of lemonade, Father Benitez was finishing his explanation of where Gilberto and Don Alejandro had gone.

"The house," Diego whispered. "I didn't think of it. I never – I am supposed to be the strategist!"

"Well," Victoria said, setting the pitcher on the table, "you were rather busy being the nurse."

"The house," he said, sharing a miserable look with Felipe.

Sternly, Father Benitez whispered, "Your father and Zorro are more than enough to deal with one terrified and desperate man."

Felipe nodded but looked unconvinced.

Diego—with obvious effort—tilted his head back and calmed himself. "We wait. We wait. I am very good at waiting."

Victoria took the seat beside him and slid her hand into his. Diego twined their fingers and sighed.

"What are the lancers saying," Father Benitez asked. "How do they like their new commander?"

"Well, they are quick to point out that he is not as crazy as Ramone. But he interferes more than Don Alejandro did, and they do not like that."

They sat for a while talking, and then Father Benitez glanced at the lengthening shadows and said, "A nice afternoon for a walk."

Diego cleared his throat. "Ah. I am reminded. Victoria, would you like to join me for a constitutional?" He rose and offered her his arm.

"That would be very nice."

Felipe started to rise, too, but Diego waved him back. "We'll be fine."

There weren't many streets in Los Angeles. Compared to the other towns she had seen on the journey south, it was very small and simple. Diego headed toward the church. After a bit, he said, "It is all right, Victoria. We can go a little faster."

Obliging, she quickened her steps. "Have you begun fencing again?"

"Gilberto won't think of it yet. I frightened him badly this time. And perhaps he is right; I have lost some strength. It will take some time to build it back up."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Diego's steps faltered slightly. "Being with you is a help," he said. "I am braver and happier when you are here. Not that that is at all fair to you."

"Oh, yes. How unfair. Outrageous to rely on the comfort and encouragement of your friends."

He stopped and turned toward her, looking very seriously down into her face. "Unfair. Victoria, you know what will eventually happen."

She swallowed, but did not let herself pull back or look away. "Yes. You are going to die. It is going to be horrible. But so will everyone else! Should none of us be happy at all now, ever?" Despite her effort, her voice cracked at the end.

Diego looked away. "You are right," he said after a moment. "I am an idiot."

"You are the smartest man I know. And the sweetest. But you are…."

"The word you are looking for is 'frightened.'" He said bitterly.

"Braver than any of us. And you do have the comfort and encouragement of your friends." She lifted his hand between both of hers and held it tightly.

He closed his eyes. "I'm - "

"Don't say you're sorry," she said. "You're _all right_ just now. So I am…so everything—_everything_ is all right just now."

His hand tightened under hers. Victoria held very still for a long moment. Then she whispered. "Come on, now. We are taking a walk because you are getting stronger. You need the exercise, and it is a very pleasant day, and…. life in our village is very exciting."

He gave an uncertain laugh at that.

Victoria firmly tucked his arm under hers and began walking again, very slowly at first and then at the pace Diego set. They didn't say anything else.

**Zorro**

Father was taking no chances. The ranch hands were armed with not only pistols (which they carried anyway for snakes and wild dogs) but also swords. They were positioned so densely and were so alert that one of them actually spotted him and waved.

Well. Zorro was not needed here. Gilberto could put Toronado away and return to town….

If Porvas was on the way to the De le Vega's, the Alcalde was looking for him in the wrong place. What was the best cross country route between Porvas' tenant farm and here?

He thought for a moment and turned Toronado south.

*Z*

The Porvas' place was in rough country, rocky and steep. It wasn't a place Gilberto would try to run cattle, let alone plant crops. He angled Toronado slightly eastward, onto higher ground. There weren't any trees out here. From a good vantage point, he would be able to see for miles.

He wound his way up a rocky slope, pausing at the crest to consider the cluster of huts he thought was Porvas' farm. And yes, riding north and west was a cluster of blue….Gilberto dug out the small telescope Diego had given him. He could make out the alcalde and a prisoner who surely was Tomas Porvas.

So. That was done.

It was nearly an anticlimax. Chasing a fleeing bandit would have been much more satisfying. Still, de Soto had been publicly in the wrong twice in as many days. If he failed _all_ the time, he would start to get grumpy.

And, really, Gilberto was going to have to be careful with this one. Unlike Ramone he would not be distracted form his ambition by sadism or greed. His pride was a weakness, yes, but it would have to be exploited carefully, and poking it relentlessly would only provoke him to the sort of heedless revenge that did not care about collateral damage.

Gilberto had plenty of time to think about it on the way home—until the rain started and the miserable, damp ride washed away his train of thought. He was soaked through by the time he reached the cave. He dutifully rubbed down Toronado first before hanging up Zorro's clothing to drip and putting on his own suit and riding Viking back out into the teeming rain to soak that, too.

By the time he reached town the rain had been joined by thunder and distant lightning. As much good as all this rain was doing for pastureland, he had never seen the like. He was supposed to be making sense of the weather, but under any serious scrutiny it was simply…mad.

He settled Viking in Victoria's small stable out back before entering the tavern. Diego, still safely flanked by Father Benitez and Felipe, was seated at a table, halfway through his supper. They hadn't noticed him yet, and Gilberto paused for a moment, sighing to himself. A reprieve.

Diego was recovering from another crisis, building his strength again. It was, possibly, time to put fear and grief aside. De Soto? What did De Soto matter, compared to this?

Gilberto was grinning like a fool when he joined him at the table. Also dripping. Victoria fussed and produced a blanket along with a cup of wine and a plate of chicken and rice. Father Benitez brought him up to date on the excitement earlier; the bandit who had been terrorizing the area had been brought in in chains and taken to the jail.

Gilberto widened his eyes comically. "They captured Zorro?"

Diego reached across the table and slapped his arm. "No, the other one. Idiot." He frowned. "Be serious. It isn't funny. Sebastian Valverde is still dead and Tomas Porvas will hang for the murder."

That was true, but none of it was Gilberto's fault, and none of it changed the fact that Diego cheeks were pink instead of pale. Or worse than pale.

"Hush, Diego," Father Benitez murmured. "It is true that these last days have been difficult, but they might have been made much worse by repeated miscarriages of justice." Which was, perhaps, the nicest thing he had ever said about Zorro in Gilberto's hearing. "And you, Don Gilberto?" he continued more loudly. "How did your afternoon proceed?"

"Smoothly, except for this rain. I'd like a quiet word with you later, though. There is one more matter to take care of." The food was excellent and he was soon warm (if still uncomfortably damp).

Conversation ranged from the mission to the orphanage, and then from the weather to the choice of site for the public school. "Speaking of school, it seems to me we have been neglecting Felipe's education lately."

"I am afraid that is my fault, of course," Diego said.

Father Benitez gave Felipe a long look. "You all realize the boy is already rather better educated than any teacher we are likely to get. Goodness, he may be very _like_ whomever we get; the church will surely not spare a monk or a nun during these difficult times."

Felipe nudged Gilberto's arm and traced "question?" in the air.

"Chemistry. Really, you have been neglecting chemistry for months. And I think Diego's hands are steady enough just now, for the more delicate experiments." Felipe grinned. He knew Gilberto meant explosives.

When the last of the food was gone Gilberto turned his chair pointedly toward the window and sighed. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but there were still flashes in the distance and it seemed to him that even this little reprieve would be short. "I should head home, let Father know things are quiet."

Diego nodded. "I have a few things to collect at the townhouse first, but - "

"You and Felipe are staying in town for the night. You are not going two miles in this weather."

"I won't melt," Diego protested.

Gilberto shrugged smugly, secure in the certainty that he would win this little struggle. "You might not, but Father would hide me if I allowed you to try it. So. Anyway, you can have breakfast with Victoria, if you wish. Well, even if you don't wish, since there is no food at the house. Or pots and pans. And you could not cook anyway."

"You could stay as well."

"I should put Father's mind at ease. Now." He turned to Father Benitez. "Could we have a word?"

**Diego**

He was tired rather than painfully exhausted. It felt almost luxurious to change out of his slightly-damp clothing and into the nightshirt without stumbling or having to stop to rest. If the house was too quiet and had too few books in it, well, that would not be difficult to remedy. Eventually. Father was considering situating Nuela and Pepe here, so that when the school was finally finished he would be easily able to attend. And possibly because Father found Nuela annoying.

Sooner than that, Diego planned to bring a dressing gown and slippers. The tile floor was cold against his feet. This was a chilly, wet winter.

The door swung open and Felipe appeared with a steaming cup and an oblong package that was probably a hot brick wrapped in flannel. He set the cup on the upended crate they were using as a bedside table and put the brick between the sheets.

"Thank you. If I'd known you were so busy, I would have helped."

Felipe shrugged that off and signed, "Pardon me," toward Diego's body.

"You want an examination," Diego sighed. "There is no need. I'm fine."

A flicker of anger, quickly hidden.

"I am."

The anger surged. His hands flew in in an awkward rush of words. "You would not tell me if you were not! Not! Months. You tried to hide how bad it was."

"And you could not yell at me for it because I was frail."

"This is not about yelling. I don't trust you."

And, of course, from Felipe's perspective, he was completely correct. But surely he could understand that Diego had not, exactly, been dishonest. "There was no point in detailing my…discomforts. We were already doing all we could. If I had complained, it would not have changed what you did. There was no point."

Felipe scowled.

"Felipe….it is very hard watching all of you be afraid for me."

He closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry for hurting you. I do know your strength and intelligence and courage … You have saved me more than once - and Gilberto, too, as far as that goes."

"It is good. What we do…." Felipe fumbled unhappily.

"Yes, it is."

"Not just Zorro. You." His hands fumbled. "Keep you well."

"It is not your fault, when things go badly."

That earned him another angry look. Felipe held out his hand. Without further complaint, Diego submitted to the examination: a check of his fingers and fingernails; the pulse at his throat and at his wrist; ankles and toes… Felipe's inspection was steady and experienced. He finished with a hand on the front and back of Diego's chest, feeling for any vibration that would reveal congestion. The doctor or Teodoro would use their ears for this, but that sort of sound was too soft and high-pitched for Felipe's hearing.

"Your hands are cold," but the complaint was only to make conversation. Felipe nudged him to breathe more deeply. Diego obeyed.

At last Felipe withdrew and indicated on the bottle his opinion of the bedtime dosage.

"That is half again what I usually take," Diego protested.

"Pulse at the neck : prompt. Pulse at the wrist: uneven." He made a face. "A little fast." He pointed to the bottle again. "Stronger, slower beat."

"My carotid pulse is even but the pulse at the wrist is not?" Diego repeated. It was, perhaps, encouraging to know that his heart was beating if not with uniform strength then at least with a steady rhythm.

"You check!"

"I don't need to check your work. I had not thought about..." He thought for a moment. "Was it better when we were adding in the cinchona?"

Felipe scowled and nodded very reluctantly. "It is poisonous."

"Felipe, all of my medicines are poisonous. If the cinchona is helpful – but we didn't bring any anyway."

Felipe sighed and pointed at the bottle they did have. Diego swallowed what he had been prescribed. Then he downed the tepid tea: dandelion and hawthorn, of course. And horribly bitter since they did not keep honey at the town house. Diego made a face. That was another deficiency they should remedy.

Felipe took the empty cup and hugged him.

**Ignacio**

The rain hissed against the shutters while the wind whined at the roof. So far, Ignacio didn't think much of California's legendarily mild weather. He rubbed his hands together; it was chill enough that his fingers cramped a bit around the quill.

So far he was on the fourth draft of the report he was preparing over the events of the last two days. It shouldn't be so difficult to frame things in the right light. The case wasn't complicated: the wrong man had been arrested, and then the right man. Surely this was business as usual here on the frontier where the military was responsible for law enforcement. How could this report be so difficult to write?

How could the administration of a tiny village and barely two dozen lancers be so difficult to _do_? Managing Los Angeles should have been a cake walk!

Ignacio balled his cold hands into fists and rested his forehead against them. If events had played out differently it could have destroyed his career. And this had only been a simple matter of amateur crime. It wasn't even Zorro!

Oh, _Zorro_. Damn the fox anyway, except things would be even _worse_ right now without him, wouldn't they? He had been sure he could take Zorro in—at most—two or three months. After that there would be promotion, transfer to Monterey…in under two years he would be commanding the garrison at the colonial capital. California was rich and would only grow more so. Madrid these days was full of unrest and hungry people. California was more stable and certainly more prosperous. In a decade or so, when things had improved and beautiful Madrid was civilized again, he could return home a wealthy, respected man….

Damn the fox anyway.

There was a knock at the door, and Ignacio jumped. What new problem could it be at this time of night? In this weather? "Come in!" he shouted above the hiss of the rain.

The parish priest entered, his cowl pulled up against the rain and a blanket held over his head.

"Gracious, Father. Come in, come in!" He scrambled to his feet. "Please, have a seat! Can I get you…" What did he have? "Some very stale orange juice?"

"Nothing, thank you, Captain. I can see that you are busy. I only need a few moments of you time."

"Yes, of course." Ignacio realized he was actually grateful for the interruption to his thoughts.

"I would like permission to see the prisoner tomorrow."

"Of course. That is standard procedure. You do not need to specifically ask."

"Thank you, Captain, yes." He smiled slightly. "We must all do our duty."

"Is there anything else…."

"Well, since you ask. I was wondering about your plans for Rivas and Mendoza…?"

For a moment Ignacio could not speak. Was this shame he felt? Or only rage at his own stupid mistake? "Rivas and Mendoza are free to go, of course. Under the circumstances…."

"Ah. I had hoped you had noticed."

"That I nearly executed an innocent man…? I can think of nothing else! It was only Mendoza that saved me."

"So he faces no consequences?"

"I think I will have to publically thank him or risk losing the respect of everyone in town. A man who is both ungrateful and attempts to hide an unconcealable mistake would have the confidence of no-one."

"Then I think, perhaps, this message I received is for you." He took a scrap of paper from his sleeve and placed it on the desk.

Ignacio unfolded it. There, in broad, water-spotted letters were the words "The broken mill at Mule's Head." It was signed with a flourishing "Z."

Ignacio's breath caught. "He has hidden them both."

"It seems so, Captain."

Ignacio frowned. "Where is _Mule's Head_?" And what kind of name was that, anyway?

"To the northwest. I am familiar with the place. I will accompany you tomorrow if you wish."

"If…I…." Ignacio cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. "Yes, thank you, Father. That would be helpful. I suppose it would be best if we went alone, in a wagon….it would discourage them from thinking they needed to defend themselves."

"My thought also." The old man gave him an assessing look. "I have kept you long enough, though you have been very gracious. I will see you in the morning, Captain." Clutching his dripping blanket, Father Benitez headed back into the rain, leaving Ignacio clutching the crumpled note in his hand.

~Fin


End file.
